


Treasures Untold

by CourtingInsanity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Angst, F/M, Injured Draco, Pirate Hermione, Smut, but why is the rum gone?, deserted island, pirate draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 06:42:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17996858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourtingInsanity/pseuds/CourtingInsanity
Summary: Draco Malfoy finds himself shipwrecked and injured in the hands of a less-than-thrilled Hermione Granger. The deserted island may not be large enough to house both of their egos, or the inevitable weight of their building sexual tension.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**
> 
> Pirate AU: Level 2 - await your surprise prompt.
> 
> "Draco drags himself out of the sea, his proud ship reduced to debris, on to a desolate isle, only to find he’s not alone after all."

The first thing he was aware of was the sound of the rolling ocean. Waves crashed and retreated, echoing in his ears and making his head pound. The next thing he was aware of was a feeling of deep cold. His eyes snapped open, revealing the lilac sky of almost-dawn. Draco groaned and ran a hand down his face, the wet grains of sand scraping his skin and causing him to flinch. 

 

As consciousness took hold, the bliss of ignorance faded, giving way to a sense of panic. It rose within him as distorted visions hurled through his mind, reminding him of just why he was laying in the shallows of a beach before sunrise. 

 

The storm had been threatening for days before it hit, and he hadn’t expected it to be as ferocious as it was. Waves like he had never seen before thrashed his ship, and it wasn’t long before the vessel had tipped and then capsized. Faint memories of the screams of his crew filtered through the flashes of memory and a sob tore from Draco’s throat. Guilt mingled with the panic and Draco wished that he, too, was lying beneath the unforgiving ocean with his mates. 

 

He rolled to the side, crying out as his ribs connected with the rough ground and a stabbing pain flared from the point of contact. Stretching on his back again, he moved his hands down his torso; he hissed as his right hand connected with the flesh just below his ribcage. When he pulled his fingertips away they were stained with blood. 

 

His body was waking up, responding to its new environment, and Draco was unpleasantly aware that he was injured. He wanted to stand, to survey his surroundings and figure out just where the hell he was, but his muscles seemed entirely against allowing him such a kindness. 

 

The sun was peeking over the horizon by the time he had mustered the strength to attempt standing. One hand clutched the injury at his waist as he shuffled on the sand, forcing himself into a sitting position. His head spun and he used his free hand to clutch his forehead as his brain pounded against the inside of his skull. When the pain had subsided somewhat, he slowly lowered his hand and stared out at the ocean. 

 

Debris floated on top of the seafoam, just small scraps of wood which had once made up parts of his ship,  _ The Dragon’s Wing. _ Draco’s heart began to beat wildly and the urge to fling himself into the ocean threatened to engulf him. He had invested everything into that ship, and now it was gone. Tears stung at the corner of his eyes but he blinked them away, wrenching his focus back to the matter at hand—standing. 

 

He grunted as he looked down at his legs. He could barely feel one of them, unable to even move his toes on his left foot. His right was a little more cooperative, but barely. He managed to bend his right leg at the knee and twist slightly so that he was kneeling, but his left remained stuck in a pathetic sort of position out to his side. Using his left arm, he hooked his hand under his thigh and dragged it in front of him. 

 

_ On the count of three, _ he told himself.  _ One, two, three... _

 

“Fuck!” 

 

His voice rang out, slicing through the air and resounding above the crashing of the waves and the roaring of the wind. Pain unlike he had ever known it shot through him, white-hot and blinding. He collapsed back on the sand, both hands now clutching his left leg; it definitely wasn’t numb anymore. 

 

_ Oh, shit, it’s broken.  _ He whimpered, his hands beginning to shake uncontrollably. How he was going to find shelter now was beyond him. 

 

Somehow, by some morbid twist of fate, he had survived a sodding shipwreck. He was the only survivor, or that was what he was assuming, given the severity of the storm. And now here he was, the lone survivor—probably—facing certain death at the hands of a bleeding abdomen and a broken leg. 

 

If he hadn’t been in such a ridiculous amount of pain, Draco would have rolled his eyes. Instead, he sat back on the sand and looked over his shoulder towards the land. He guessed the white sand of the beach stretched for perhaps a hundred yards before reaching a dense palm tree forest. Frustration burned in his throat as he realised that he probably wouldn’t have been able to drag himself there using only his arms even if he hadn’t just been dumped unceremoniously from the waves of a wild ocean. 

 

A shiver ran up his spine as another wave crashed, spraying him with icy water; he needed to find shelter immediately… but how?

 

He turned back to the ocean and wondered if it wouldn’t just be better to end it all here and now. At least it would be on his own terms. A Captain should always go down with his ship, after all… How had he managed to screw even that up? He sighed heavily and decided against it. A slow and painful death was probably what he deserved, here on land, where his body would be ravaged by wild beasts, or possibly the natives. 

 

The wind picked up again and he wrapped his arms around himself in a futile attempt at keeping the chill at bay. As the sun rose further into the sky and the tide somewhat retreated, his vision blurred and then faded to black. Exhaustion consumed him, the physical and emotional turmoil finally taking its toll.

 

It was like falling off the edge of the Earth. One minute he was conscious, though all he could see was black, and the next it was like he was being tossed off the edge of a cliff, falling, falling, falling, enjoying the nothingness of the dark… until he was back again, conscious and annoyed at having to think. 

 

A hand gripped his shoulder, jolting him out of his latest round of blissful unawareness and Draco growled. Peering through foggy eyes, he first thought the natives must have found him. A cloud of bushy brown hair hovered above him and he blinked furiously in an attempt to focus on the features of his assailant. 

 

A sharp stabbing pain in the middle of his chest lowered his gaze and he noticed the dagger first, gripped in a delicate fist. 

 

“Hey!” Draco rasped, bringing his hand up to grib the offending piece of jagged wood. “What are you doing?”

 

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you!” Her breath was coming hard and fast, and a tremor in her voice told Draco that she was terrified, though for the life of him he could not imagine why. 

 

As his brain turned over sluggishly, he attempted to push himself into a sitting position. “Well for a start, I’m injured.” He nodded his head towards the gash in his side and his useless left leg. “And I’m also unarmed.” He winced, the force of talking sending sparks of pain through his midsection. “If it’s a fight you’re looking for, I’m afraid you’re not going to find one here.”

 

“How can I trust you?” she spat, digging the dagger deeper into his skin until Draco felt it draw blood. 

 

“Ow!” he hissed, trying and failing to wrench the dagger away from his person; she was surprisingly strong, this mad woman. “I’m  _ injured, _ ” he repeated. “I think I’ve broken my leg, and with any luck I’ll bleed out from this—” he lifted his shirt gingerly to show her the large cut in his side “—before dying of starvation or consumption.” 

 

The woman expelled a huff of air through her mouth, but the pinch of the dagger lessened somewhat. He noted that her eyes were brown and though they were still wide, they seemed slightly less crazy now. 

 

“You’re a Malfoy.” A statement, not a question. 

 

Draco blinked and fell backwards, laying flat in the sand again. “Yes,” he answered before calculating the risk of divulging such information. It wasn’t such a shock to be recognised on the sea, or even in London during what little time he spent in the city; his name commanded a certain level of respect, in some social circles at least. But to be shipwrecked on an unknown island and accosted by an unknown woman who knew his name… what were the odds?

 

“The hair gives you away.” The woman nodded towards his head and Draco felt instantly on edge. 

 

He grunted a response, disliking the way she sneered as she took in his appearance. “And who might you be?” 

 

She studied him for a moment and then said, “None of your business.” 

 

Draco wanted to argue, but the woman got up and headed back towards the trees. “Wait!” he called. “Where are you going?” 

 

“Don’t worry,” she said over her shoulder, “I’ll be back.” 

 

Draco huffed. He wasn’t going to stoop so low as to  _ pout, _ but he couldn’t deny the frustration of not having the upper hand, especially with a woman. He didn’t concern himself with women, though he had warmed the bed of a handful during his travels. In his experience they were mostly vapid and stupid, either wanting money or marriage. This woman, however, had not even been able to approach him without brandishing a weapon. How odd. 

 

She returned quickly, much to Draco’s relief. Under her arm she carried several lengths of wood and a bundle of what looked like linen rags. As he watched her moving towards him, Draco realised that she was wearing trousers not unlike the ones he had seen some of his men wear, and a linen shirt remarkably similar to his own. He wondered if another ship had wrecked on this island and she had stumbled across pirate clothing. 

 

She bent down beside him and let the bundle of items fall into the sand. “I don’t have the proper equipment, I’m afraid,” she said as she set about lifting the hem of his shirt to reveal the wound. 

 

“Hey!” Draco protested, trying to smooth the material back down. “What are you doing?” 

 

The woman tutted. “Don’t be such a baby! I’m trying to help you. This is a deep wound and you will indeed bleed to death eventually if I don’t at least attempt to bandage it up.” 

 

Draco stopped fighting her but scowled up at the woman as she set about cleaning the wound. He bit down on his back teeth as the pain coursed through him. At one point he even stopped breathing so as to not flinch and give away just how much she was hurting him. She wasn’t trying to, of course; in fact, her movements were gentle as she washed the sore with salt water and cleared it of sand before wrapping a thin length of linen around his middle, cinching it with an impressive knot. 

 

“There,” she said when she was finally done. “All finished.” She nodded triumphantly, a small smile turning the corners of her lips upward. 

 

“Thank you,” Draco rasped. “Now what about my leg?” 

 

“I’m getting to that,” she snapped, all traces of a smile gone. 

 

She shuffled towards his feet and leaned over his left leg. “I’m going to have to move you for this one,” she said, her tone only slightly apologetic. “And it’s going to hurt.” 

 

Standing in one swift movement, she slapped her hands on to the tops of her thighs and then marched back to his head again. “Sit up for me.” 

 

Draco disliked the fact that she expected him to do something which would cause him incredible pain, and he liked it less that she insinuated that it was  _ for her _ , but he did as he was told. He shoved his hands into the wet sand and used his palms to support himself shakily, glaring sideways at the woman with all the disdain he could muster.

 

“That’s it,” she said, taking him under the arms. “Deep breath.” 

 

Before he could finish the inhale, the woman was dragging him backwards. The movement pulled on his newly-bandaged cut and he cried out in pain, a high-pitched sound that brought a burning sensation to his cheeks. 

 

She chuckled as she deposited him on the dry sand, but said nothing about his wailing. Draco was thankful when she settled at his leg again and he was able to lay back, staring at the sky. It was a very pretty shade of blue now and there was nary a cloud about. 

 

“This is probably going to hurt, too,” she warned as she stood to collect the wood. 

 

“I can take it,” Draco assured her, though his tone suggested more bravado than he actually felt. He knew his cheeks were still tinged a not-so-subtle shade of pink and he wasn’t about to give the woman even more satisfaction. 

 

She pursed her lips as she knelt in the sand beside him and began measuring the stick lengths against his leg. Finding two which suited her needs, she discarded the rest before placing one on the outer side of his thigh, and the alongside the inner part of his leg. Draco was about to protest at the feeling of the wood sticking into a most inappropriate part of his anatomy, but then he realised he daren’t say such a thing in front of a lady, even if she was the least ladylike creature he had ever laid eyes upon. 

 

He swallowed thickly as she picked up the pile of linen—which Draco had worked out were torn lengths of shirts like the one she was wearing right now—and gingerly lifted his thigh, wrapping one length of rag around it. He hissed through his teeth as a burning sensation shot up and down his leg. His fists clenched into the sand and he longed for something to bite down onto. His arms began to shake as she tied another, and then another length of linen around his leg. Sure he was about to pass out, Draco almost begged her to stop, but just as he felt the familiar sensation of the world tipping on its axis, she tied the last knot at his ankle and sat back on her haunches. 

 

“There,” she said, brushing sand from her hands. “Do you think you’ll be able to stand?” 

 

She placed a hand over her brow to block out the sun, regarding him through squinted eyes. He shook his head. “No,” he choked out. “I’m feeling a bit… dizzy.” He swallowed thickly, willing the wooziness away. He loathed feeling weak in any sort of context, but least of all in front of a woman. Draco knew he would fall if he tried to get up, though; a show of false bravado would only cost him in this moment. 

 

She said nothing further but nodded, turning her attention back to his leg as if looking over her handiwork. He had to admit that she had done a fine job with such limited supplies. As they sat in silence, Draco admitted—if only to himself—that he was very lucky the woman had found him and was able to patch him up. If he’d been alone on this island, or found by the natives… he shuddered, adamant he would focus only on the present. 

 

After a while, the strength returned to his limbs. “I think I can stand now,” he said, pushing himself into an sitting position. His vision blurred but then quickly righted itself. 

 

“Right, hold there.” The woman got to her feet and then walked behind him so that she could place one of her arms across his back, lifting his arm across her shoulders. “On three,” she said. “One, two,  _ three! _ ” With a grunt, she heaved him to his feet. 

 

Draco was surprised at her strength, but he didn’t have long to marvel at it as he was now standing on his own two feet. Granted, his left leg was basically useless. He could hardly bear weight on it and pain shot up from his ankle to his hip any time he had to swing it forward; the splint, however, at least allowed him to leave the beach. 

 

“Thank you.” He panted as the woman deposited him on a rock deep within the palm forest. 

 

He glanced around, noticing that they were sitting in a clearing. It was almost a circular shape, the dirt floor covered with glossy green leaves; he wondered if that was a natural occurrence or whether  _ she _ had designed it that way. To his right was a crude-looking shelter made out of leaves, branches, and linen cloth. His heart sank as he realised it was only large enough for one person. 

 

He cleared his throat and she turned back to look at him, settling on the other side of a small fire pit. “How did you get the roof up?” He pointed towards the shelter, eyeing the blanket of linen and leaves which stretched between two palms. 

 

She blinked a few times as if confused before answering. “I tied it.”

 

“Tied it?”

 

“Yes,” she said slowly. “You know, with rope and knots? Like what I did with your leg?” 

 

“I know what  _ tied _ means,” Draco spat. “I just wondered how you managed to get it to stay; that storm would have hit here as well…” he trailed off, hoping she would pick up on his thread. 

 

She frowned and moved forward so that she could tend to the fire; this was something Draco could understand. In London his family owned an estate, including a rather grand manor. They had several servants and he used to take great pleasure in watching the maids light the fires in the morning; it was the only time he saw them on the upper levels, a fact which alone was fascinating to a young Draco. 

 

“It did,” she answered once small orange flames were licking the remaining sticks of wood at the bottom of the pit. “And it put out my fire, so if you’ll excuse me…” 

 

She did not finish the sentence but stood swiftly and disappeared down a dark, narrow path into the forest. 

 

“Hey!” Draco called after her. “Where are you going?” 

 

The only response was the faint  _ swish, swish  _ of palm leaves being disturbed as she moved along, but even that faded to nothing quite quickly. Draco huffed in indignation; who was this woman? She knew his name and apparently had a rather strong opinion on it, she possessed basic survival skills… well, perhaps  _ basic  _ was a tad unfair, given her work on his leg and the shelter she had built. Where had she learned such skills, though?

 

He was still pondering when she returned with her arms full of more wood. Without a word, she placed it next to the pit in a neat pile before taking a few logs and placing them on the fire. She stoked it with a thin stick, humming under her breath as she did so. 

 

“Hungry?” she asked suddenly, her gaze rising to meet his. 

 

He nodded, noting her eyes were the colour of melted chocolate. “Famished,” he said, having only just realised he was starving. 

 

“I’m afraid there’s not a lot of edible animals on the island,” she said, “but there are some nice berries.” She shuffled towards the shelter and then returned, her palms cupped together. She thrust her hands under Draco’s nose and he leaned back slightly so he could observe the contents. “Here.” 

 

He screwed his nose up at the colourful balls. “What are they?” 

 

She shrugged. “I’m not sure what they’re called exactly. But I do know that they’re not poisonous.” She gingerly transferred the pile to one hand and then used her thumb and forefinger of the other to bring one of the berries to her lips. She bit down on it and began to chew. “See?” she said, swallowing. “Not poisonous.” 

 

She thrust her hand towards him again and Draco reluctantly accepted the food; it  _ was _ food, to be fair, and it wasn’t as if he had any other way of finding sustenance. “Thank you,” he said, popping a berry into his mouth. The sweet juice exploded on his tongue and set his saliva production into overdrive. 

 

“Easy,” she said, a wry smile twisting her lips as she moved back to the fire. “I’d slow down, lest you want to be sick.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes at her tone, but heeded her warning. His stomach growled as the first berry hit it and he knew that she was right. It had been too long since his last meal and that paired with the fact that the berries were a foreign food could spell disaster for his gut. 

  
  


Later that evening, Draco sat on his rock and ate a small piece of fish off of a palm leaf. While it wasn’t the tastiest of meals, he had to hand it to this woman—had he been alone, he surely would have starved. 

 

“You’re adamant you won’t tell me your name?” he said, finishing his last mouthful of dinner. 

 

She glanced up from her own meal and shook her head slowly. “There’s no need for you to know.” She sniffed and Draco felt the urge to scoff. 

 

“But you know mine.”

 

“I know your  _ last _ name,” she corrected primly. 

 

“My first name is Draco.” 

 

She snorted. “Lucius’ son, I presume?” 

 

“You presume correctly,” Draco answered with surprise. “How do you know my father?” 

 

“I know  _ of  _ him,” she corrected. “Everyone does.” Her tone was dark and her expression thunderous, and Draco felt a little bit nervous asking the next question. 

 

“Everyone?” 

 

“You know—” she shrugged “—everyone.” 

 

He frowned. “No, I don’t. You’re going to have to be more specific about  _ everyone. _ ”

 

“Everyone in our line of work.” She arched an eyebrow at him pointedly and Draco almost slid off the rock in shock. 

 

_ Was she a—? _

 

“Are you saying that you’re a—” he gulped “—a  _ pirate _ ?”

 

There was a moment’s pause in which the woman blinked her eyes and took in his words, and then she threw her head back and laughed. The sound echoed in the small clearing and Draco winced as it shot through his head. 

 

“What did you think I was, a vagabond? A strumpet?” 

 

“I thought you might have been a native…” Draco coughed and ducked his head to hide his shock and embarrassment.

 

She laughed again. “Well that is less insulting, at least. But no, I’m a pirate… or rather, I  _ was _ a pirate.” 

 

Draco was silent as he pondered this information. He had never known a female pirate before, though he had heard tales of women impersonating men in order to gain access to the ocean. He would have died had he found out a woman was aboard  _ his _ ship, for sure and certain. The whole idea was simply preposterous; what purpose could any woman have for being on board a pirate ship? 

 

“You look contemplative.” Her tone was wary as it dragged it from his thoughts.

 

He shook his head. “I’m just surprised,” he said slowly.

 

“That there are female pirates?” she asked, a condescending smirk forming on her face. “You’d be surprised how many of us there are—good ones, too.” 

 

“It’s unheard of.” 

 

“Because men are ignorant; you only see what you want to see.” Her smirk was gone and her tone was laced with warning.

 

Draco knew that he was pushing his luck, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “They obviously found you out,” he observed. 

 

“I was outed by another woman,” she snapped in response. “Not that it’s any of your business.” 

 

Well, she had him there. Draco sniffed, adjusting his chin so that it was angled upwards. “Well, probably a good thing. It’s not proper for a lady to be a pirate.” 

 

Her jaw dropped open at his words but Draco didn’t feel like he should take them back. He was right, afterall; women were mothers, maids, nurturers, and sometimes teachers… not  _ pirates. _ He screwed up his face at the very idea, his head smarting as he tried to assimilate the image of the young woman in front of him and the experiences one had aboard a pirate ship. It just didn’t make sense. 

 

“I see,” she said stiffly. “You know, if I  _ wasn’t _ a pirate you’d probably be dead by now. She pointed at his leg and then gestured towards the fire and shelter. “Or at least very cold, hungry, injured, with no one to even hear your last words.”

 

Draco winced. That was harsh, but probably true. He had no response to that and it irked him. Never had a woman managed to burrow so deeply beneath his skin; he wasn’t fond of the sensation at all. 

 

“Were… were you tossed overboard?” he finally asked after a few long moments of silence. 

 

She observed him with pursed lips. Her hair was a cloud of brown curls which melded with his view of the fire so that it seemed as though she was a creature born from the flames. “I’ve had enough of talking,” she answered. “I think I’ll go to bed. Goodnight.” 

 

Her tone suggested that by  _ goodnight  _ she meant  _ go bugger yourself _ , but Draco repeated the sentiment beneath his breath. As she crawled into the darkness of the shelter, he realised that he hadn’t asked her to help him to the ground so that he may also lay down and hopefully get some sleep. He would need as much rest as possible if he was to eventually regain use of his broken leg. 

 

Groaning, he attempted to bear weight on his left leg, but he was unable to do so without fear of falling and snapping the injured bone even further. Gritting his teeth, he called for her into the darkness. “Hello? Um… Can you hear me?” 

 

_ Well this is awkward, _ he thought to himself.  _ How does one call a person if one does not know that person’s name? _

 

While he was sure she could hear him given how close they still were, there came no response from his right. Instead, he wiggled his backside forward until his weight hung precariously over the edge of the rock on which he was perched. He winced as he fell, taking care to lean to the right so as not to knock his broken leg. He met the ground with a grunt and he bit down on his tongue so he wouldn’t call out at the pain shooting up his spine. 

 

He huffed as the pain subsided and then he fell to his side, attempting to get comfortable on the slightly damp ground. 

 

_ It could be worse, _ he thought.  _ It could definitely be worse… _

 

He closed his eyes and tried to fight the images of the storm as they began to dance across the back of his eyelids, begging for sleep—or death—to take him peacefully. 

  
  


The next morning Draco was woken by the crunching of leaves on the ground beside his head. 

  
“I wondered if you’d find your way to the floor.” She was standing over him, her hands on her hips. 

 

Today her hair was tied back with a scrap of cloth and she was wearing a faded maroon-and-gold bandana around her head. Draco wondered how she had managed to hide that bush of hair while parading as a man aboard some poor sod’s ship, but before he could formulate the question, she had walked off. 

 

“Where are you going?” he asked, feeling a bit like a broken record. Would she ever treat him like a human being instead of a slightly-amusing animal she’d found half-dead in the shallows?

 

“To get breakfast,” she answered without turning around or slowing. 

 

Draco watched her retreating form from his place on the ground and when he was sure she was gone, he hauled himself into a sitting position. It was not a very graceful movement and it required much grunting and huffing to force his body to cooperate. Finally, he was sitting up on the carpet of palm leaves with his back against the grey rock. 

 

For countless days and nights, Draco did not move much from the shelter. As he regained strength, the woman helped him walk on his splinted leg for short distances. She said it was so that when the bone fused he would be able to walk on it. More than once she had made a joke about him being  _ a real pirate _ with an injured leg substituted somewhat by a wooden alternative. He had reminded her in no uncertain terms that if anyone wasn’t already a real pirate it was her, as she was a woman and had no business upon the seas. 

 

That had shut her up, but it had also made her cold and Draco found that the quality of the fish and berries he had become accustomed to dropped significantly. He was still waiting for his turn to sleep in the shelter but she never offered, and he considered himself too much of a gentleman to ask. 

 

He lost count of the days somewhere after forty. He had taken to carving a tally into a tree trunk which grew within arm’s reach of his rock but soon gave up on the basis of futility; what was the point of keeping track when it was looking more and more likely that he would live out the remainder of his life on this small island with only an irritable brunette for company? 

 

By the time his leg had healed enough for him to be able to walk on unsupported, Draco was more than ready to prove that he, too, was capable of ensuring their survival. For his entire time on the island he had been reliant on the mystery woman—who still wouldn’t tell him her name—for everything. 

 

“Right then,” he said one morning, hobbling over to where she was experimenting with roasting berries in the embers of the firepit, “I think I’ll go and catch us some dinner.” 

 

She looked up from where she was stirring the berries with a stick. Squinting against the sun, she appraised him for a second before nodding once. “Fine,” she said, returning to the pot. “I usually fish at the inlet through there.” She pointed at the dark pathway he had watched her disappear down day after day. “My spear is next to my bed.”

 

He wondered why she felt it necessary to sleep with a weapon in such close proximity as he moved towards her shelter. She had told him that the island was deserted and not that large, so he couldn’t imagine what sort of threats she was perceiving. 

 

He found the spear easily and then used it to move the palm fronds out of his way before stepping onto the path. It was lined with densely packed trees and thin beams of light peppered the trail, allowing him to see several feet in front of him. A smile spread across his features as he hoisted the spear onto his shoulder and continued following the well-worn path; it felt good to finally be able to explore on his own. 

 

He reached the inlet soon after setting out on his journey and he was pleased to note that the tide was changing, pushing out towards the horizon; fish would definitely be on the move. 

 

Draco had watched many a man fish when he and his crew had docked at different locations. The fishermen would roll up their trousers and shuck their boots before taking to the waves, standing knee-deep in the waves with their spears pointed above the swirling water. The level of concentration was to be commended, but Draco was sure he could match it easily. When something swam past, the fishermen would slice through the foam with their spear, emerging with a still-flailing creature attached to the end. 

 

“How hard can it be?” Draco muttered to himself as he set the spear carefully in the sand and began to roll up his trousers. It was difficult, rolling up the trousers on his left leg. He no longer needed the splint, but he was still shaky as the bone had healed at an odd, stiff angle. He managed, however, but he winced the way the material dug into the tops of his thighs; he now understood why many of his crew had opted for baggy linen pants rather than the tight trousers donned by Captains and First Mates. 

 

Making his way to the water’s edge, Draco squinted and used his free hand to shield his eyes as the sun appeared fully over the horizon, bright flares of light bouncing across the turquoise ripples. He shuffled forwards, dipping his toes in first to get an indication of temperature—it was quite balmy, he noted. He moved further in until his knee caps were under water. 

 

Then he waited. He assumed it wouldn’t be long before a school of fish would swim past and he would be able to spear a few for dinner.  _ That’ll show her, _ he thought. 

 

For what felt like hours, he watched the water and daydreamed of returning to the clearing with several fat fish on his spear; perhaps then she would finally tell him her name, once he had proven himself to be so useful. 

 

By the time the sun was beginning to fall from the sky, Draco was feeling desperate. He whispered beneath his breath, praying to any and all deities that he would soon see a stupid fish, or perhaps another edible sea creature. His daydreams had turned into panicked, broken visions of returning with nothing but the spear and a sense of failure. Draco Malfoy didn’t  _ fail _ . It wasn’t a concept he was used to and it certainly wasn’t one he was going to become accustomed to. 

 

“Come on, fish,” he murmured, scanning beyond his little circle of proximity. The water was clear enough to see to the bottom even several metres in front of him. Not so much as a sceric of seaweed made an appearance as the sun continued its descent.

 

“You’re moving too much,” a condescending voice sounded from behind him and Draco almost toppled over into the water as he turned around. 

 

The woman was standing with her toes in the ocean, her pants rolled to mid-calf. Her arms were folded across her chest and her weight was resting on her right leg, he hip jutting out as she smirked at him. Draco bristled; of course she had come to watch.

 

“I am not,” he retorted. “You’ve made me move now, with your shouting.” 

 

She shrugged. “Just trying to help.” 

 

“Then go and do something useful.” Draco huffed, turning back to the empty ocean. 

 

She tutted loudly and Draco imagined her rolling her eyes in an exaggerated, dramatic fashion. “If you need me to do it, just ask.” 

 

Draco ignored her and after half a minute he heard her footsteps crunching across the sand. His shoulders sagged in a contradictory mixture of relief and disappointment. He was just beginning to think about giving up when a silver creature darted between his legs, and then another, and another! 

 

Draco daren’t move. He imagined his legs were like the strong wooden masts on his ship, grounding them into the sand, not an easy feat given that his left leg protested at having supported his weight for so long already. He raised the spear up slightly and then brought it down, piercing the water with nary a splash, aiming for the school of fish now swarming around in front of him. 

 

They darted in all directions at the disturbance of the pointed tip now swaying amongst them before Draco pulled it from the water. 

 

“Fuck!” he exclaimed as he noted that the spear was as bare as when he had first struck. He fought the urge to stab the spear repeatedly into the ocean, blindly wielding the weapon until he reached exhaustion. Instead, he positioned himself again and kept an eye on one particular fat-looking fish which seemed slower than some of the others. 

 

Over and over again he repositioned, waited, struck, each time coming up empty. The sun was now dipping beneath the ocean, a thin orange strip of light remaining above the deep blue blanket of ocean. Draco was sweating, his linen shirt clinging to him as he desperately begged whatever deity might be listening to please,  _ please _ let him catch a fish—just  _ one _ . 

 

Dusk was upon him when finally his spear struck true. The fat fish he had kept his eye on from the beginning was now laying across his spear, though it didn’t appear as large as it had in the water. Brushing it off as a trick of the refractive light, Draco stumbled his way back to shore. Now that night was here, the tide had come in and it took significantly longer to reach dry land than usual. 

 

When Draco arrived back at the clearing, the woman was tending to the fire, a blackened pot whistling atop the flames. 

 

“I was about to send a search party,” she greeted him without turning around. 

 

The triumphant smile slipped momentarily from his face. How she knew he was behind her was lost on Draco, and he was annoyed that she had ruined his grand entrance. Placing the spear in the sand beside him, however, Draco’s confidence returned. “I brought dinner,” he said cockily, turning one side of his lips up in a condescending smirk.  

 

The woman turned, her eyebrows arched in obvious surprise. “Really?” she said. “Amazing. I would have put money on us starving tonight.” 

 

She stood in one fluid movement and made her way towards him. Squinting, she reached for the spear which Draco allowed her to take from him. He moved towards the fire, keen to dry off his legs before the chill of the night really set in. 

 

A long, frustrated groan had him whipping back to look at the woman. Her expression was a mixture of mirth and frustration; Draco’s blood ran cold. “What?” he asked. 

 

“You fool!” She hissed, screwing her face up in disgust. “You’ve caught a puffer fish!”

 

Draco blinked at her.  _ It was still a fish, wasn’t it? _

 

“They’re poisonous—inedible! Unless you want to die, of course.” 

 

Draco’s ego deflated in the same way the fish had on the end of his spear. “Oh,” he said. 

 

The woman tutted, shaking the spear until the fish fell off of it before burying it in the sand. She didn’t say anything else as she stomped away to her sleeping quarters, but she might as well have shouted at him. 

 

What a mess he had made of things. He was simultaneously annoyed and embarrassed. Part of him wanted to go after her and shout that he had at least  _ tried, _ and even though the fish wasn’t going to provide them with sustenance, he at least had managed to catch the damn thing. He knew that was petty, though, so he snapped his mouth shut and sighed, hoping that there were some berries leftover from that morning. 

 

Moving to the fire, he rotated slowly on the spot, allowing the heat to dry out the bottom half of his legs. The pot the woman had been stirring the berries in earlier was still sitting on the edge of the pit, but it was regrettably empty. His stomach growled in protest and a fresh wave of frustration flowed up his chest. 

 

By the time the woman returned Draco’s mood had deteriorated considerably and he was prepared to give her a mouthful should she make any more snide remarks about his fishing prowess—or lack thereof. 

 

“Here,” she said, thrusting a crude sort of mug into his hands. It was empty. 

 

“What am I meant to do with this?” He sneered, tipping the mug this way and that. 

 

She rolled her eyes, waving a jug with a thick cork stopper in front of her. Without speaking, she thrust the jug into his hands and indicated that he should open it. 

 

It took longer than Draco would have liked for him to work the cork free, but when it opened with a satisfying  _ pop! _ he couldn’t help but grin. He poured the mug to the brim. 

 

“Cheers,” she said, reaching for the mug and taking a sip before handing it back to him. 

 

“Cheers,” he echoed before drinking deeply. He sighed as the liquid burned its way down his throat, eating away at some of the chagrin at having brought an inedible fish back for dinner. 

 

He had not tasted rum in a long time, having mostly refrained from drinking alcohol as Captain of his ship. Smacking his lips together, he took a seat on the ground beside the fire, crossing his feet at the ankles and warming them in front of the flames. 

 

“So,” the woman said, settling across from him,“you said you’re Lucius Malfoy’s son. Your ship would be  _ The Dragon’s Wing _ , then?” 

 

Draco took a swig of rum to hide his initial shock. How this woman knew so much about piracy and survival was strange enough for him, but that she should know about  _ him  _ specifically was simply flooring. “Yes,” he answered finally. “Well, it was.” 

 

There was a pause, and then: “What happened?”

 

Draco sighed and took another swig of rum. He had done a good job so far of blocking out the memories of his shipwreck, during the day at least. The nightmares still haunted him, and he feared they would do so until the end of time. For a moment he considered whether or not he wanted to share the story, but as the rum settled in his otherwise-empty stomach, he figured there wasn’t anything to lose. 

 

“The storm hit and we were ill-prepared as we hadn’t expected it to be so ferocious. The wind was the problem… before we knew what was going on, the ship was on its side and despite my crew’s best efforts, we went over. I managed to grab onto a piece of wood and tread water for a while. It was pitch black and I couldn’t hear anything over the roar of the waves.” Draco shuddered at the memory and paused here to take several mouthfuls of rum. “At some point I must have passed out, and the next thing I knew I was on the beach here.” 

 

The woman was silent for a long while and Draco didn’t feel like filling the space with more words. He was lost in the terrifying memory, his gut clenching with the guilt of not knowing what had happened to his crew. He hoped that they were okay, but in his heart he knew it was highly unlikely that they had survived—he was still unsure of how he had made it. 

 

“Your father...” The woman cleared her throat and gestured for him to pass her the rum. He did so, watching as she squeezed the mug between both of her hands. “He works for Tom Riddle, doesn’t he?” 

 

Draco’s eyes snapped up to meet hers. Deep brown orbs reflected the firelight and he swallowed thickly; he had to admire her confidence. “Yes,” he answered slowly. “Last I heard he was aboard Riddle’s ship;  _ The Mors Comedenti _ .” The name felt like acid on his tongue. 

 

“Have you ever worked for him?” She lifted the mug to her lips and drank deeply before handing it back to him.

 

Draco’s throat constricted but he forced the remaining rum down it before answering. “Once,” he admitted. “I was sixteen and it was my first time on the ocean.” 

 

“Sixteen?” The woman’s voice was hard and Draco winced; he knew where she was taking this. “You oppose women as pirates but have no issue with minors aboard a pirate ship?” 

 

“Actually, I oppose both.” Draco leaned forward and gripped the bottle of rum, bringing it to the mug and pouring another large helping. “It wasn’t what I wanted; my mother tried to stop it but she had no power over Father.” He shook his head and then gulped the burning liquid gratefully. His head was beginning to feel slightly fuzzy around the edges and he was glad for the numbing quality of alcohol. He wasn’t sure he would be able to have this conversation while sober. “Women and children have no business on the sea. I stand by that.” 

 

The woman snorted, a most unladylike sound. Draco failed to hide his shock, but this only seemed to spur the woman on; she really was unlike any other female he had ever met. “This from a man who still sleeps on the ground beside a rock with no shelter.” She raised her eyebrows as she took the mug from his hands again.

 

“I’ve been injured!” Draco glowered, his hands balling into fists..

 

She shrugged one shoulder in a nonchalant sort of fashion and Draco bristled at the smirk beginning to form on her lips. With that she stood and threw the mug on the ground beside him before stalking away, one of her hands running through her crazy curls. Draco watched her go, unsure of whether he wanted to follow her. On the one hand, she was probably the most fascinating creature he had ever met, but on the other she was also the most infuriating. He was torn between wanting to know everything about her and wanting to desert her, even if it meant certain death at the hands of the unruly ocean. 

 

He spent a long time by himself, sitting in front of the fire and drinking rum. By the time the woman appeared again, the flames had died to embers (despite Draco’s attempts at stoking it; perhaps he really was as useless as she thought?) and he was incredibly drunk. 

  
“Well, well, well,” he slurred. “If ‘t isn’t Miss Know-It-All herself!” 

 

She frowned as she came into view, her expression only just readable in the moonlight. “Are you… drunk?” 

 

“What’s it to ya?” 

 

“For fuck’s sake,” she grumbled. 

 

“Oh, ho, ho!” Draco crowed, getting to his feet awkwardly and swaying on the spot. “Such a  _ lady _ ! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” He pointed an accusing finger at her, using the hand which was still holding his rum. 

 

“You need water,” she said through clenched teeth. 

 

“Ha! There’s two of you! Hello, Miss Know-It-All’s twin sister. I’m Maco Dralfoy… I mean…” Draco shook his head and the world spun. He landed on his arse in the sand and he grinned as the woman placed a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. “Oops.” 

 

“Just wait here, I’ll get you some water.” 

 

Draco sat back, the mug slipping from his grip and falling over in the sand. Rum ran across his fingers as he pressed his weight into his palms and held himself there, watching the woman leave. “Hey!” he called. “If I squint like this—” he narrowed his eyes to slits “—there’s only one of you again!” 

 

Moments later the woman returned but Draco was no longer feeling the happy side effects of the alcohol. Tears stung the corners of his eyes and he whimpered as the familiar bushy brown head swam into his line of vision, albeit slightly blurred. He saw that she was carrying a large bucket and he forced himself to sit, balancing awkwardly in a sort of half-squat, half-kneel over the empty bottle of rum. 

 

“What are you doing?” she asked as she came to a stop beside him. 

 

“It’s gone,” he whispered, cradling the empty bottle in cupped hands. He glanced up at her, noting that she once again had two heads. “Why is the rum gone?” 

 

“You drank it, you absolute buffoon.” She sighed. “Honestly…” 

 

With that, Draco attempted to stand but found that he no longer had control of any of his muscles. He let out a low whine and flopped back on to the sand, one arm flung across his eyes. “Why is the rum gone?” he tried again, yelling it this time. His voice cut through the night air like a spear through a damn puffer fish, bursting the guts of anything remotely worth having survived a shipwreck for. 

 

She did not reply and Draco removed his arm to inquire again, but before he could open his mouth, there was a satisfied grunt and then icy cold sea water was splashing over his head, shoulders, and chest. 

 

Draco swore colourfully without an iota of shame having uttered such crass language in front of a woman. He sat up, spluttering as the salt stung his eyes and laced his tongue with a briney aftertaste. “What was that for?” He wheezed, wiping his eyes gingerly to avoid getting sand in them. 

 

“I told you I was getting water.” She shrugged. 

 

“I thought you meant to  _ drink _ !” 

 

She smirked and Draco kicked out his right leg. His shin connected with the backs of her legs with such force it sent her falling to the ground beside him. At the sound of her landing Draco began to laugh, a deep belly laugh which made his sides ache. 

 

“That was not funny!” she screeched. 

 

“It was a little bit funny,” he said, grinning over at her as she scrambled to her feet. 

 

She ignored him, stomping off towards their shelter. 

 

“Hey!” he called. “I’m all wet thanks to you, I need a fire to dry off!” 

 

She snorted. “Then light one,” she said primly. 

 

“I can’t.” Draco pouted, an expression he would definitely be ashamed of at a more sober hour in the morning. 

 

“Then freeze.” She shot him a cruel grin and then disappeared. 

 

“Women.” Draco shook his head and curled up into a ball as close to the still-warm coals of the fire as possible, willing himself to dry off quickly. 

 

The wind picked up and chilled him to the bone. For the remainder of the night he lay awake, freezing and cursing the nameless woman who slept soundly but a few yards away from him. 


	2. Chapter 2

As the sun broke through the canopy of her shelter the next morning, Hermione Granger was first aware of the heat on the back of her neck. The next thing that broke through her semi-conscious mind was the sound of someone being violently ill close to where she lay. 

 

“Malfoy?” She sat up, bearing her weight on her palms. 

 

A loud retching sound was the only response she received. Hermione smirked, though her stomach rolled at the sight of the blond idiot clutching his belly as he leaned over in the low-lying scrub across from her shelter. 

 

_ Serves him right, _ she thought savagely as she tossed the scrap of linen from her body. The git had been nothing but a thorn in her side since his arrival on her otherwise peaceful island. Lord only knew how long she had shared this space with him now, but it had not become easier as the days slid by; he was misogynistic, ignorant, and bloody useless. 

 

She had heard of the son of Lucius Malfoy years ago and knew that he was a successful pirate Captain. In fact the only reason she hadn’t chosen to board  _ his  _ ship was that she had been sure he’d find her out. Now, she feared she may have overestimated his intelligence.

 

A wry smile quirked at her lips as she busied herself with putting her boots on. By the time she was finished, Malfoy was standing, albeit resting his weight against the trunk of a palm tree. 

 

He used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth before he met her gaze. “Shut up,” he rasped, pointing a shaky finger in her direction. “Not a word…” he trailed off, wincing as the sunlight bathed his face in a yellow glow. 

 

She grinned but didn’t say anything, more than happy that Malfoy was paying for his stupidity the night before. There was no need to add to it, though she was enjoying witnessing his discomfort as he hobbled back to his usual spot on the rock near the fire. 

 

“Okay,” she called, louder than necessary. She swallowed a laugh as he winced at the sound. “I’ll just be off to get breakfast, then.” 

 

He waved half-heartedly and she set off down the familiar path. Soon she came to her usual berry bushes and began to collect them using the front of her shirt as a sort of pouch. She collected the red and burgundy varieties, thinking of a good fry up. If she was anywhere near civilisation she would cook up a batch of bacon and eggs, perhaps some beans… that would probably be better for Malfoy’s stomach. 

 

Hermione glanced down at her haul. She was always careful not to take too many, lest the berries run out. For the most part she had become accustomed to the constant feeling of hunger gnawing at her insides, but some days it was hard not to miss even the basic meals aboard the ship. While the cook had turned out to be a traitor as well as a sub-par chef, Hermione longed for a decent batch of vegetables and a little bit of lamb. 

 

She sighed as she made her way to a small stream which ran through a section of the forest. It was shallow but clean, and she scooped a mug full to take back for the ailing Malfoy. Granted, he deserved his hangover, but Hermione figured that  _ she _ certainly didn’t deserve what would undoubtedly be a day full of moaning and retching from the blond. 

 

When she returned to the clearing, Hermione saw that Malfoy had curled himself around his rock and he was muttering to himself, much too quiet for her to make out anything intelligible. 

 

“I brought you water.” 

 

She crouched beside him and stretched out her arm. He groaned, a long, low sound which seemed to go on for far longer than necessary before he rolled over. His face was pale and waxy, his forehead beaded with sweat. His lips were cracked and he blinked blearly up at her a few times before scrunching his face and forcing himself into a sitting position. Taking the cup from her, he brought it shakily to his lips and began to gulp it down. 

 

“Slowly!” she admonished. “You’ll make yourself sick again!” 

 

He was looking green around the gills again as he took the mug away from his mouth, a small bead of moisture dribbling down his chin. He swallowed thickly a few times and Hermione scrambled backwards to ensure she wouldn’t be within the splash zone. Malfoy managed a weak smile as the moment past and he brought the mug to his lips again, this time taking small sips. 

 

“Thank you,” he mouthed, his voice lost somewhere between a cough and a whisper.

 

“A pirate who can’t handle his rum.” Hermione tutted, smirking as she sat down and began to divide the berries she had gathered between them.

 

Malfoy made to roll his eyes but then winced; Hermione wondered how badly his head must be pounding. “It’s much easier on the ship,” he said, his usual haughty tone distinctly absent. “You just hang over the side until it passes.” 

 

“Do you often get that drunk?” Hermione inquired, pushing his pile of berries towards him. 

 

“No,” he admitted, blanching as he took in the sight of the berries. “We observe strict pirate rules; lights go out at eight. To set a good example for my crew I never stayed up drinking beyond that. There were, however, some rowdy parties during the day time after a successful loot.” 

 

“Eat.” Hermione bit into a berry, the sweet juice bursting across her tongue. “You’ll feel better.”

 

“Ugh.” Draco screwed up his face as he eyed the colourful pile in front of him. “I don’t think I can.”

 

“Just a nibble.” Hermione realised she was molly-coddling him, but she also knew that if he didn’t eat she would pay the consequences of having to listen to him empty the contents of his stomach for the remainder of the day. 

 

He groaned but obediently pinched a small, red berry between his thumb and forefinger. He grimaced as he brought it to his lips and poked the tip of his tongue out, experimentally tasting the fruit. 

 

Hermione swallowed a laugh. “I’m going to assume you don’t feel up to much today?” 

 

Malfoy shook his head slowly, chewing the berry for so long it might have been made of steak. “If that’s okay,” he said once he had finally swallowed. “I don’t think I’ll be much use, unfortunately.” 

 

Hermione smiled knowingly but nodded to indicate that she was okay with it. He had been entirely useless up until this point which annoyed her greatly. Only, now that he was able to get around and actually do things, Hermione found herself feeling more annoyed at the idea of him actually accomplishing things. It was all very peculiar, but she suspected it had something to do with Malfoy’s views on female pirates; as long as he was relying on her, it was proving that she wasn’t a liability on the ocean… or at least that’s what her subconscious seemed to think. 

 

The remainder of their breakfast was finished in silence and then Hermione bid Malfoy farewell as she went off to hunt for lunch and dinner. There wasn’t a lot of edible fauna on the island; Hermione had realised this early on after her arrival. There were tortoises, but Hermione didn’t think much of them for eating. Plenty of birds rested in the trees but she didn’t have the right equipment to hunt them and would surely starve if she depended on climbing the palms to catch them with her bare hands. Lizards scurried along the forest floor, but while she had been forced to roast a couple of skinks during the early days, she much preferred the seafood. 

 

Today, however, she didn’t make it to the inlet. On the path, laying a few steps ahead of her in a direct beam of sunlight, was the largest crab she had ever laid eyes on. Hermione stuck her spear in the ground beside her but the animal didn’t move. Taking a step forward, she noticed that it was laying partly on its side. 

 

_ Is it dead? _

 

Slowly, she moved towards it, her spear now poised to strike. She held her breath as she moved her foot forward, balancing on the other leg so she could tap the solid outer shell with her big toe. Just as she was about to make contact, the crab shuddered and rolled until it was on its legs and facing her. It moved backwards, using its large pincers for balance as it swayed in its hurry to get away.

 

Hermione squealed in surprise, quickly find her balancing and launching herself forward. Knowing the spear wouldn’t be sharp enough to cut through the hard exoskeleton, she aimed for the underbelly which was currently on display as the crab sought its escape. 

 

She thrust her spear forwards and with a satisfying squelch, the weapon found its aim and the crab moved no more. Her left hand settled on her chest as Hermione drew large, gulping breaths in through her mouth. It wasn’t the first time she had killed an animal in distress, but it was the first time it had been with something of this size. Too frightened to move it from the spear, Hermione held the weapon out in front of her so that the crab preceded her back into the clearing. 

 

Malfoy was where she had left him, still sitting against the rock, and he looked up in bewilderment as Hermione shucked the creature off the length of the spear. It rolled pathetically until it hit the stone wall of the fire pit. 

 

“What… what is that?” 

 

“A crab,” she answered, using a large palm frond to wipe the muck from the point of the spear. 

 

“A crab?” he echoed, glancing from the dead creature back to her. “Are you sure?” 

 

“Yes,” she answered. “I’ve seen them in market stalls on various islands.” 

 

“Have you seen them in the ocean?” 

 

“No.” Hermione shook her head and then wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “I don’t think they live in water.”

 

“You mean—?” Malfoy’s voice was shaky and he was looking rather pale again. 

 

Hermione huffed but did not answer him. She highly doubted that they were about to be eaten in their sleep by a herd of wild, giant crabs; they’d obviously been sharing the island with them up until now. 

 

She turned on her heel and placed her spear back beside her bed. Returning to the firepit, she noticed Malfoy moaning and clutching his stomach. 

 

“Oh, the smell,” he whined. “The smell is making me feel ill again!” He gasped and swallowed thickly, but Hermione only rolled her eyes. 

 

“Get up and go back to your tree if you’re going to be sick,” she said without sympathy. 

 

Hermione bit her lip as she watched him stagger to his feet and then stumble his way over to the tree she indicated. His face was completely ashen again and sweat was running off of him, dampening his hair and the linen of his shirt. He placed one hand on the tree as he bent over, spitting into the bushes… but nothing came of it. 

 

A few moments later he declared he was feeling better and that he was going to go and bathe in the ocean. By the time the sun was beginning its descent, Malfoy was back to his usual annoying self and Hermione found herself missing the peace his illness had brought her. 

 

Hermione had spent the rest of the afternoon shelling and gutting the crab. Her hands were full of cuts and abrasions and the joints in her wrists and knuckles ached. When the crab was finally prepared, she wrapped the meat in fresh leaves and set them to bake in the hot coals of the fire. 

 

A quick wash of her hands was all she allowed herself in the stream before she collected some vegetation from nearby their clearing. By the time they sat down to eat the meal, Hermione was wondering if it had all been worth it. 

 

Malfoy was chatty and she was exhausted, unable to focus on the conversations he attempted to start. 

 

“Look,” he said as he licked his lips and set his empty palm leaf to the side, “I know that I haven’t exactly been the best company, or the most useful person to have to share an island with.” 

 

Hermione snorted; that was an understatement. She swallowed her last mouthful, having quite enjoyed the crab after all the effort it had taken to prepare. “And?” 

 

He cleared his throat and glanced into the orange flames which were now flickering brightly in between them. “I’m grateful,” he said quietly, meeting her gaze again. “You didn’t have to save me when you found me on the beach.” 

 

Hermione’s throat constricted and she had to cough a few times to dislodge whatever was preventing her from responding. “It’s the pirate code,” she said thickly.

 

Malfoy nodded. “I know, but you’re here alone with no Captain, no crew, no ship. The rules don’t exactly apply…” he trailed off.  “What I’m trying to say is… thank you.” 

 

Hermione was glad she had finished eating as she surely would have choked at this admission. She blinked, her eyebrows raising towards her hairline as she searched his expression for an indication that he was joking. His face remained impassive, his grey eyes genuine. 

 

She exhaled slowly through her nose and cocked her head to the side; she couldn’t figure out what angle he was playing. “You’re welcome,” she said, a slight edge to her voice. 

 

They sat in silence for a while and Hermione contemplated Malfoy’s sudden change in tune. He hadn’t said it in as many words, but he had implied that she was, in fact, a pirate. And not a  _ female _ pirate, or a  _ pretend _ pirate, but an actual, honest-to-God pirate. She couldn’t help the way her lips fought to quirk upwards into a smile. 

 

“What are you thinking about?” 

 

Hermione jerked out of her reverie at the sound of Malfoy’s voice; it was stronger than she had heard it all day. He was watching her intently and she blushed under the intensity of his gaze. 

 

“Nothing,” she replied quickly. “Just about how long I’ve been here.” Improvising had always been a strong suit of hers, having kept her true identity a secret for five years aboard a pirate ship.

 

“How long  _ have  _ you been here?” he inquired. 

 

“I’m not sure.” Hermione shrugged. “I’d guess I was here for a few months before your shipwreck.”

 

There was a significant pause and Hermione believed the moment to have passed when Malfoy spoke again. “What led you to being here?” 

 

Hermione stiffened. It was not only an embarrassing story, but a painful one. “It’s not your business.”

 

“So you’ve said.” Malfoy’s voice was soft, unaccusing, and Hermione sighed as she met his gaze. 

 

“I’d rather not talk about it.” She didn’t want to go into gory detail, least of all with a man whose stance on female pirates had been—up until now at least—entirely negative.

 

“I promise I won’t laugh.” 

 

“I’m not worried about that.” 

 

They eyed each other for several seconds. Hermione noted the way his silver irises glinted in the moonlight, reflecting it like a pair of diamonds. She narrowed her eyes at him, torn between wanting to keep her story a secret and wanting to share it. It had been so long since she had told anyone anything… heck, this man didn’t even know her name! 

 

She sighed, her defences crumbling. “Fine,” she said before clearing her throat. “But you can’t laugh, and I don’t want to hear any comments about how  _ it’s not proper _ for a woman to be a pirate. Deal?” 

 

She stuck out her hand between them and Malfoy shook it without hesitation. “Deal.” 

 

His expression was serious and Hermione gulped, suddenly nervous and perhaps just a little bit excited as she ran her tongue out over her lips. “Well I guess my story starts with Tom Riddle.” She paused briefly to note his reaction but Malfoy’s face remained politely impassive. “He murdered my parents several years ago,” she continued, fighting the urge to smirk at the sharp inhale of breath from the blond. “He’s the reason I wanted to become a pirate. I worked for a man named Potter and his crew from the day I turned eighteen until they discovered I’m a woman.” 

 

“How did they find you out?” 

 

“The First Mate’ sister. She was aboard the ship as well, undercover as the cook” 

 

She paused here to watch his reaction. Malfoy’s jaw tightened and she waited, expecting him to express his opinion of a woman not only disguising herself as a man, but being responsible for feeding the entire crew on board a ship. After a few moments he seemed to regain his composure, however, and he gestured for her to continue. 

 

“Potter and Weasley were thick as thieves; I’ve never seen a dynamic as strong as theirs. I thought that they also considered me a friend. I assumed that if Potter ever found out about me, he’d let it slide because he respected me. I worked bloody hard for him.” She added the last sentence harshly, picturing Potter’s green eyes and black hair as she stared intently into the flames. 

 

“Those names are familiar,” Malfoy murmured. “The Weasley family I know of, I think. This Weasley doesn’t happen to have several brothers, does he?” 

 

“Yes.” Hermione nodded, her eyebrows raising in surprise. “Ronald is the youngest brother, and Ginny is the sister.” 

 

Malfoy clucked his tongue in recognition. “I’ve definitely heard of them; not good things, unfortunately.” He grimaced but Hermione wasn’t about to ask him to elaborate; she didn’t need to be told how awful they were. 

 

“Any way,” she said pointedly, smirking slightly as Malfoy snapped his mouth shut, “I was on board  _ The Lightning Bolt  _ for many years, worked my way up quite quickly, and was appointed as the boatswain.” She puffed her chest out proudly, remembering how much she had helped Potter with not only plundering, but with finding and gathering supplies legitimately, too. 

 

Malfoy raised his eyebrows and nodded, clearly impressed. A healthy amount of satisfaction settled in Hermione’s gut and she continued, feeling happier than she had since arriving on the island. 

 

“I thought I’d proven my loyalty, my ability, and that Potter and Weasley would have my back should anything go wrong.” She sighed, looking to the heavens and speaking directly to the stars. “One day I was getting changed in my cabin and I’d forgotten to lock the door. I was running late and I was dealing with my hair and…” Hermione’s cheeks filled with heat again as she gestured to her chest, lowering her gaze but making sure not to catch his eye “...and  _ wrapping _ … myself…you know, so that it wasn’t obvious that—”

 

“That you were a woman,” Malfoy supplied, his voice lower than she was accustomed to hearing it. 

 

“Yes,” she said, casting her eyes skyward again. “That. Ginny burst in on me, claiming that Potter needed me urgently. She took one look at me and I knew my cover was busted, but I’d known who  _ she  _ really was for months. I never said anything because I thought we’d support each other. At first, it looked like she would. She revealed herself immediately and I was excited to finally have someone to be myself with.”

 

“But…?” he prompted. 

 

“But she ran directly to Potter. Told him that I was a woman. I thought he’d laugh it off, but he took the accusation with a surprising seriousness. He insisted I be checked and upon confirmation of Ginny’s claims he ordered the ship to dock at the next island so that I may be marooned. He allowed me to take a satchel and suggested I fill it with things I’d need; I don’t know if he meant for me to survive but in those moments I had never seen such coldness in his eyes.” 

 

Her words were met with silence and Hermione slowly lowered her gaze to take in Malfoy’s expression. She had expected mirth or perhaps a look of  _ I told you so _ , but there was something else blazing in his eyes and Hermione was taken aback. 

 

“Do you know why he was so hell-bent on getting you off that ship?” he asked. 

 

Hermione snorted indelicately. “I have a theory,” she said dryly. “I believe that Ginny was sleeping with Potter. I hadn’t noticed anything while we were on the ship but the time I’ve had to think since they left me here… it makes sense. Potter wouldn’t want Weasley to know that he was sleeping with his sister even on land; imagine if he found out that Potter was sleeping with her on the ship! He dragged Ginny along, I think…I mean, I don’t know for sure, but… that’s my theory.”

 

“It’s a good one.” Malfoy nodded, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Just listening to your story, I was going to suggest the same thing. What I don’t understand, though, is why he thought you even knew?” 

 

“I’m not sure either.” Hermione bit her lip. “Maybe it was because we’re both women; he figured we’d gossip or something.” She sighed. “Who knows?” 

 

Silence enveloped them again and Hermione closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of the fire on her face and the full sensation of her stomach. 

 

After a while Malfoy stood and Hermione watched him as he shuffled towards her. He stuck out his hand and lifted an eyebrow. “May I have this dance?” 

 

Hermione’s mouth fell open. What the hell was he playing at? There was no music, and she hadn’t said anything to indicate—

 

“I know,” he said with an impatient sigh, as if he had read her mind. “But for the first time in a very long time I’m full, and warm, and I feel like dancing. Please.” He leaned further forward, wiggling his fingers in front of her face. 

 

Hermione rolled her eyes but got to her feet. “Fine,” she said. “But only because there’s nothing else to do.” 

 

“You could sleep,” he murmured, tugging her against his chest. 

 

“I  _ am _ rather sleepy…” she said, fighting a small smile. 

 

He chuckled, the rumbling sensation spreading from his chest into hers as they swayed in the small space. It was impossible to dance properly in such confinement, and with Malfoy’s leg not exactly being the most cooperative of limbs. But it was… nice, Hermione decided. 

 

He smelled like seawater, salt and something earthy. Hermione breathed deeply as she allowed her left cheek to rest against his chest, the soft linen of his shirt rubbing gently against her skin. His chin rested on her head as his left hand pressed her almost protectively against him, his right clasping hers tightly beside his heart.

 

“So you’ve heard my story,” she said after a little while. “One night you’ll have to tell me yours.” 

 

“One night,” he agreed in a whisper.

 

She pulled back to look up at him and smiled as his eyes searched hers. “A dream, then,” she said. 

 

They had stopped moving, but Malfoy still held her to him. His face was lit by the firelight and the moon. Hermione wondered how she had failed to appreciate his sharp cheekbones and the elegant slant of his nose. His lips looked soft, not that Hermione allowed herself to notice that… certainly not…

 

“A dream? As in something I’ve experienced while sleeping?” 

 

“No.” Hermione shook her head slowly. “A wish; something you hope for in your future.”

 

“Right now I just want to get off this island.” 

 

Hermione’s heart dropped to her stomach and she stepped backwards out of his arms. She regretted the loss of warmth momentarily but then wrapped her arms around herself and stumbled back to the fire. She huffed as she settled in her usual spot, refusing to look at him as he spoke.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said softly. 

 

“Like what?” she asked, gazing into the flames. 

 

Even she couldn’t explain her reaction to his words. She wanted to get off the island as well, but she had also been enjoying herself for the first time since landing here when he had all but suggested that he’d rather be anywhere else…

 

He sighed but did not answer her. In her peripheral vision she saw his hand rake through his hair while the other settled on his hip. They stayed silent for a while until Malfoy hobbled back to the fire and settled against his rock. 

 

“A wish?”

 

“Yes,” she answered quickly, grateful for anything that might break the tension which was building around them. “Would you like to have your own ship again?”

 

“I don’t know.” Malfoy stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose I would; I don’t know anything else, really. Though it might be nice to settle somewhere, one day. Not England though, somewhere more tropical.” 

 

“That does sound like a wonderful dream.”

 

He hummed his assent and then turned his attention to her. “What about you? What’s your plan if  we ever get back to civilisation?” 

 

“I want my own ship,” Hermione answered immediately, relishing in the shock evident in his eyes. 

 

“Your own—?”

 

“Yes,” she said curtly, cutting him off. “I think I’d make a fine Captain.”

 

“No doubt about that,” he conceded, so softly that Hermione wasn’t sure he meant for her to hear.

 

An awkward silence descended between them as Hermione tried to decide how to react to his barely-there compliment, and Malfoy seemed to war internally over what to say next. The way his eyebrows knitted together distracted Hermione from her thoughts and she found herself itching to smooth the creases of his forehead, wondering what his skin would feel like beneath her fingertips. It was as if their moment of dancing had sparked something within her… It had been so,  _ so  _ long...

 

“I have a confession, I think,” Malfoy said. His abrupt speech shocked Hermione out of her daydreams and a burning flush crawled its way up her neck; she was grateful that it was dark. “No, I  _ do _ have a confession…” He met her gaze with a shy sort of smile. “I was wrong to say that women have no business on the sea. I still don’t particularly  _ like _ the idea, but you’ve shown that you would be bloody useful on board a ship… I’d be stupid not to see that.” 

 

Hermione blinked in surprise. “Really?” she blurted out, instantly wishing she had taken a moment to craft a more elegant response. 

 

“Yes.” He nodded solemnly. “If I had a crew as passionate and as knowledgeable as you I think we’d be able to easily take over the seven seas.”

 

Hermione laughed, unable to stop the foreign bubbling in her gut. “Well, what a turn of events. Just last night you were telling me that you felt strongly the  _ opposite. _ ”

 

Malfoy shrugged and then bowed his head. “Perspective is a funny thing,” he muttered. 

 

Hermione wasn’t sure what he meant by that but decided not to push her luck by asking. A warmth filled her chest as they sat there, not looking at each other, wearing reluctant smiles on their faces. It would be a stretch to suggest that she completely trusted the blond pirate, but she certainly didn’t feel any ill-will towards him anymore. He was fairly useless at hunting for food, but he made for all right company, and after all this time alone, his appearance was—dare she say it—refreshing. 

 

When she met his gaze again, he was watching her. “What?” she asked, feeling shy.

 

“Nothing,” he answered quickly. He smiled a cheeky sort of smile and his teeth sank into his lower lip. 

 

And then she was standing, though she didn’t remember how she got to her feet, and he was there, and they were kissing. His hands tangled in her hair, holding her head in place as her fingers clawed at the buttons of his shirt, popping them free before raking her nails down his chest. 

 

He growled into her mouth, his tongue hot and insistent as he walked them backwards. Hermione’s spine found a tree trunk and desire pooled in her belly as he pressed against her. His desire was obvious, straining against his tight pants and Hermione moaned as it brushed against her belly, just above where she suddenly wanted him most. 

 

His kisses moved from her mouth, scattering over her jaw before trailing down her neck and then pausing at her pulse point where he sucked and nipped until she thought her legs might give way. Her hands moved up over his shoulders and threaded in his hair as his grazed over her sides, gripping her hips. His thumbs hooked into the sides of her trousers and tugged them down unceremoniously. 

 

It was fast and primal, and Hermione could barely keep up. She stepped clumsily from her trousers, the cool breeze brushing the vee of curls at the apex of her thighs and making her shudder with want. 

 

“Please,” she begged, barely able to form a coherent thought as Malfoy kissed her hard on the mouth again, dragging her shirt from her shoulders. 

 

Completely naked now, Hermione felt it was only fair that he at least take off his shirt. It didn’t take long to discard the scrap of linen and she made quick work of memorising the planes of his stomach as he kissed his way across her chest.

 

When he took a nipple into his mouth, Hermione cried out in pleasure; it really  _ had  _ been far too long since she’d felt like this… even her own hand had not satisfied her since her arrival on the island. Survival had been her primary goal, but now… 

 

Her thoughts emptied from her head as Malfoy twirled her away from the tree and kissed her, using his hands on her hips to guide her backwards towards the shelter. They fell to the ground, a tangle of limbs and hair. Hermione giggled and Malfoy smirked against her lips. 

 

He pulled away long enough to divest himself of his trousers and then he was on top of her, the tip of his erection poking at her entrance. Hermione’s eyes rolled back into her head as he kissed her, slower this time. She gripped his shoulders and prayed that he would hurry up; she was close to begging and this island was too small to hide her from the embarrassment that would bring…

 

With one sure thrust, he sheathed himself inside her and they both hissed in pleasure. He began to rock against her and Hermione wrapped her legs around him, moaning in time with his thrusts. 

 

He leaned down to kiss her as he increased the pace and Hermione arched her back so that her clit was rubbing against his pubic bone. It didn’t take long until she was seeing stars behind her closed eyelids. Malfoy seemed to sense this and increased his pace even further. 

 

Hermione keened and called his name as she shattered around him, white spots replacing her usually clear vision as her eyes fluttered open. He grinned down at her before burying his face in her curls. 

 

His grunts in her ear told her that he was approaching his own climax quickly which only seemed to build her own desire again. He swore as he came, sparking another orgasm from Hermione. 

 

Her breath came in ragged spurts as he slid out of her and to the side, supporting her head in the crook of his arm. “We should have done that sooner.” She panted. 

 

He laughed. “Agreed.” 

 

They lay there staring at the canopy of her shelter, catching their breath. When she was sure she could speak without feeling like she might faint, Hermione rolled to the side. She cleared her throat, and waited until he leaned his head to the side, making eye contact with her. 

 

“My name is Hermione Granger,” she said quickly but clearly.

 

Hermione watched Malfoy’s reaction closely. First there was confusion, as if the sudden revelation of her name had shocked him not in content but in the abruptness of delivery. Then his eyes widened impossibly, his jaw falling slack. His already pale features grew waxen and Hermione worried that he was relapsing. Was it possible to relapse into a hangover? 

 

“Granger…” he rasped. 

 

“Yes,” she repeated, frowning. “Hermione Granger. Have you heard of me?” 

 

She doubted this very much. She had not used her real name when she had been on board Potter’s ship, instead fashioning herself with a male handle.  _ Hermione Granger _ was her moniker only in London during the time she spent away from the ocean, which was never much time at all. 

 

“No,” he whispered, pushing himself into a sitting position. He was staring at her as if he was both captivated by her and looking straight through her. “I know of your parents.” 

 

Hermione’s gut clenched almost painfully and she mirrored his movements, wrapping her arms around herself. “How did you know them?” she demanded, her tone harsher than she had intended. 

 

“I didn’t.” His voice was hoarse and he swallowed forcefully before continuing. “My father was part of the crew who…” he trailed off, but the gist of his words hit Hermione full force, as though he had shouted them right in her face. 

  
She stood abruptly, stumbling backwards out of the shelter and hurrying back towards the tree where this entire  _ mistake _ had started. She found her clothes and hurried to put them on. She could hear him behind her but the roaring in her ears wouldn’t let her focus on anything in particular. 

 

Once she was dressed, Hermione turned on her heel beside the flames still dancing in the firepit and ran towards the pathway.

 

“Wait!” she heard him call. “Granger! Hermione?” 

 

But Hermione wouldn't stop. She was equal parts relieved and angry that he did not immediately set out to follow her. 

 

She knew that Lucius Malfoy was a terrible human being, and she knew he had worked for Tom Riddle around the time her parents had been murdered. She knew that it had been Riddle’s men who had taken her parents from her, but she had never been told  _ who _ exactly was responsible for their deaths. For years she had wondered and attempted to locate the information, but to no avail.

 

Now she knew, and she wished she didn’t.

  
  


She woke the next morning on the other side of the island, curled up beside a large palm tree. The trees were not as dense here, closer to the beach, and Hermione’s first thought was that it would be fairly easy to build a new shelter… then she remembered that all of her supplies were with  _ him _ , and she groaned out loud. 

 

Without linen it would be difficult to tie the leaves to create a new shelter, but Hermione was determined to at least try. However, by the time the sun was hovering at its peak, beating down onto the top of her head, she had to admit defeat. She cursed the heat and swiped at her brow with the back of her hand; it came away slick with sweat and she looked longingly out at the ocean. 

 

It represented two things she wanted most right now: to cool down, and freedom. Freedom from her island prison and from the blond parasite who had taken up residence upon it. She scowled as she made the trek back towards her original shelter. 

 

She had known from the minute she laid eyes on him that he was a Malfoy, and she had  _ always _ known that Malfoys could not be trusted. Hermione berated herself for letting her guard down in such a spectacular way, and for letting the prat get beneath her skin. Somewhere in her logical brain she knew that it wasn’t  _ his _ fault that her parents had died;  _ he _ had set a path of his own away from Lucius and Tom Riddle… but Hermione could no longer look him in the eye without conjuring images of her parents. 

 

It was too painful. She swallowed thickly as she pushed the dense fronds aside and entered the familiar space. Malfoy was sitting on his usual rock, facing away from her. She wondered if she might be able to hurry over to where she had once slept and retrieve just one or two shirts, but as she stepped forward he glanced over his shoulder. 

 

“Hermione,” he said, scrambling to his feet and hobbling towards her.

 

She held her palms out towards him and shook her head. He froze, a frown on his face. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I-I just came back for supplies. I’m going to set myself up somewhere else.” 

 

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “I’ll go, you were here first.” 

 

“No,” she said, staring at the ground; the hurt in his eyes was almost too much for her already-crumbling emotional state. “I want a fresh start. You stay here.” 

 

With that she turned jerkily to her right and began to rummage in her old sleeping space. She retrieved a handful of rags but left the shelter intact, and the spear; she would make a new one. 

 

“Hermione, please—” 

 

But she didn’t wait to hear what he had to say. She bowed her head and ran back towards the path, knowing that he wouldn’t follow her. She ran until she reached her new clearing and threw her energy into flattening the ground. 

 

It was almost dark by the time Hermione finished putting together her new shelter. She was hungry but it was far too late to go hunting for anything now, so she set to work lighting a fire and then sat beside it, fashioning herself a new weapon. 

 

Tomorrow she would hunt early, gather enough food for one, possibly two days, even if it was just a pile of berries. Then, she would begin working on plans to get off the island. Sure, she had tried to find a way off of the island when she first arrived, but after awhile she had found the exercise futile. She had nothing to run  _ from  _ back then, but now… 

 

She shuddered and then swallowed thickly, determination flowing through her veins like a fast acting poison. Hermione would get off this island and put as much distance between her and Draco  _ sodding  _ Malfoy as possible. 


End file.
